


Coming to Light

by pinkelephant5



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Gen, Reveal, pre-Mortinez
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 15:29:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4397249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkelephant5/pseuds/pinkelephant5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry's careful plan to tell Jo his secret falls apart with one shocking phone call. She needs her partner now more than ever, but uncovering the truth may reveal more than either of them bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. TRUTH, INTERRUPTED

**Author's Note:**

> My AO3 account has been sad and empty since I set it up, so I decided it was time to spruce it up with a few stories I originally published on ff.net. 
> 
> *****
> 
> It must be a rite of passage for new Forever fanfic writers to tackle Henry's Big Reveal to Jo, so here's my contribution. I make references to events in my previous story, BOTH SIDES NOW, but this one stands alone.
> 
> Intellectual Property Disclaimer: I do not own Forever. I'm making no money here. This is fanfic: we do it for love.

_If you are out to describe the truth, leave elegance to the tailor._

_~Albert Einstein_

* * *

"More wine?"

Henry lifted the bottle to Jo, but she declined. "I'm good for now, thanks."

"Abe?"

"Sure, I'll take a splash." The three of them sat around the table on the terrace over Henry and Abe's apartment. The remains of Abe's chicken cacciatore with roasted vegetables littered their plates, evidence of an evening well-spent in dinner and conversation.

Jo had been happy to accept Henry's invitation. Spending time with him and Abe was strangely comfortable, and she always felt like a welcome addition to their company rather than an intruder. She wondered yet again about the two men's relationship. Their explanation that Henry's late father was Abe's business partner didn't seem to cover it, even after years of friendship. They didn't act "as close as family"; they acted like actual family. She couldn't pin down the difference exactly, but there was one.

Add it to the list of things about Henry Morgan she was hoping to discover. Unravel. Unwrap.

 _Well, that was an interesting word choice._ She chose to blame the wine. The excellent wine, along with two soulful eyes and an intensely handsome face that lit up like a felonious six-year-old's when its owner was reenacting a crime. No, she had never been tempted by a passing impulse to find out whether his perpetual three-day scruff would feel soft or bristly against her face, or if his hair was as finger-friendly as it looked. Nape.

—NOPE!—She meant nope. That clinched it; no more refills.

She lifted her last inch of wine to the evening's chef. "Abe, that was delicious."

Abe pushed his chair back from the table and stood up, returning the salute. "It's been a pleasure, Detective. And now if you'll excuse me, I'm on dish duty."

"No," Jo protested, "you sit, or let me help. The cook shouldn't have to clean up alone."

"That is a very kind offer, young lady, but it wouldn't be fair to tempt you away with my charming company when Henry has been waiting to get you alone all evening."

Jo crossed her arms and turned to Henry, eyebrows up. "Is that so?"

"Thank you, Abraham," Henry said sarcastically. "But he's right. There is something I would like to speak with you about."

Abe piled the remaining dishes up with his free hand and headed for the doorway. "If you need me, I'll be in the kitchen. Henry, don't dig yourself too deep a hole while I'm gone."

Jo laughed at his comment, taking it as a friendly jab at Henry's bizarre conversational tendencies. Henry, however, saw the knowing glance directed at him, loaded with empathy and a touch of cheerleading. In truth, he was about to dive into some deep and treacherous waters, and he probably _would_ need Abe's help before the night was over. No matter how Jo reacted to the truth about his "condition," it was going to be a difficult conversation for them both.

It had been nearly three weeks since she witnessed his shooting and subsequent fall overboard into the East River, then found him washed up on shore nearly an hour later, in shock and bleeding out from a wound in his shoulder. What she didn't know was that the shot on the boat had been much closer to his heart then he let on—close enough to kill him. The hole through his shoulder was self-inflicted, made to hide his inconvenient recovery.

Abe had urged him to tell her the truth. It was time, he'd said, and past time. He hadn't pushed the matter since, but Henry knew he was right. The time had come.

The more Henry thought about it, the more he realized that he had done his son an injustice all these years. Ever since Abigail left, Abe had been Henry's only "person," the only one Henry could confide in or call when he was in trouble. Abe never complained (well, rarely complained), and Henry hadn't done it intentionally, but that didn't change the fact that it was a huge responsibility for one person to carry. To him, telling Jo the truth seemed more like saddling her with a burden than demonstrating his friendship, but how many times had she insisted that sharing the load was part of being partners? He was finally willing to take her at her word.

There was yet another reason to tell Jo: Adam. Now that the other immortal was in New York and toying with Henry, having an ally with access to police resources could only help. Henry didn't want any more people, especially the people he cared for most, to become collateral damage in this strange game.

They could trust Jo; _he_ could trust her. At least, he thought he could. There was only one way to find out.

That still left the big question: how does a man tell his partner that he is immortal?

Even though he'd had 200 years to practice, Henry had surprisingly little experience with this. His few personal examples had mostly ended badly. Like being committed or burned in public badly.

In hopes of a happier outcome, he had treated the problem like one of his experiments and methodically developed a plan. In Step One, he would start with the basic facts. As a detective, maybe she would respond to that.

_Jo, I may look 34, but I was born in 1779. I was shot protecting a slave, and now I never age or stay dead. Also, I've been married twice. One wife left me without a trace and the other had me committed, and Abe is my 70-year-old adopted son. I'm often found naked in the river because that's where I appear every time I supernaturally come back to life. No idea why. Are you sure you don't want more wine?_

Hmm. The delivery needed some wordsmithing.

As a cop, she would also need evidence, which he would provide in Step Two. Abe was on call with the family documents they usually kept locked away in a hidden safe, including photos of Henry dating back to the birth of photography. She would probably claim it was his father/grandfather/great-grandfather, as he himself had often done in a pinch, but he was building his case.

 _Brick by brick_ , she'd told him once. And that's what he would do.

Step Three: he had also prepared for tonight's dinner by dying two days earlier. Jo saw his bullet wound firsthand less than a month ago. Showing her his now-undamaged shoulder should at least make her pause before calling in the psych unit, and give him more time to explain.

As a last resort, if all else failed, Step Four was a small syringe of pentobarbital in his jacket pocket. Henry could administer his own lethal injection. He hoped she would believe him without that ultimate proof—or at least give him the benefit of the doubt for now—but he would understand if she didn't. If she really needed to see, he would show her, and he had chosen the most straightforward, least violent option he could.

He really hoped she wouldn't need to see tonight. There were a lot more riverside patrols on Saturday nights, looking for drunk, disorderly, or naked citizens just like him.

* * *

Jo could see that Henry was miles away. She didn't know what was making him retreat into that brain of his, but he'd been there all night. At least this time, it sounded like he wanted to tell her why.

Once Abe was gone, she turned to him. "So what's on your mind, Henry?"

He looked up with a start like he'd momentarily forgotten she was there, then smiled. "I'm sorry. I haven't been very good company tonight, have I?"

"You have seemed pretty distracted, even for you. Do you want to tell me about it?"

He caught her gaze with an intensity that surprised her. "Yes, I do."

The way he said it carried such weight that she waited silently, not wanting to break the connection that seemed loaded with a meaning she didn't yet understand.

Finally he continued. "I do want to tell you about it. The thing is, "it" is rather a big It, so I need to beg a favor first."

"Sure, name it."

"No matter how mad, how insane I sound, please hear me out."

"Henry, of course I'll hear you out. Just tell me." Good grief, what could he possibly need to tell her that warranted this kind of build-up?

He nodded and seemed to let go of his final reservations. "It has to do with something I started telling you months ago, about my scar."

Her eyes flicked down to the spot where she would see a large, puckered scar on his chest if he weren't wearing a shirt. It was not a bad view when he wasn't wearing a shirt, scar and all.

Stop it.

"You said you were shot."

"Yes. It was the leader of a band of...human traffickers, you could say. I was treating one of his victims, and he believed the man would be less trouble dead. I objected, and he shot me."

He paused, frowning, and seemed unsure how to continue. Her interview skills kicked in and she prompted, "So how did you get caught up in all this? Where did it happen?"

"It's not so much about the _where_ as the _when_ ," he said carefully.

"Okay then, _when_ did it happen?"

"A long time ago. Jo, it was—"

Her phone rang, startling them both out of the moment.

"Sorry," she said, checking the caller ID. _DA's office_. She frowned slightly and tried to ignore the dip she still felt in her stomach every time she saw those words. She silenced the ringer and let it roll to voicemail. She had no open cases at the moment, a rare lull, so whatever they wanted could wait for tomorrow.

She looked back at Henry. "Sorry, nothing urgent. You were about to tell me _when_ you were shot. The first time. Or maybe not the first time." She smiled, trying to lighten the mood. Henry looked more nervous than she'd ever seen him, and her curiosity was piqued. Whatever had happened, he was more than just hesitant to tell her; he was afraid. She couldn't imagine what could be so bad, but he was ready to tell her about it, and she was determined to justify his trust.

"Yes," he continued, "when. It was...many years ago. In some ways, I was much younger back then, but in other ways," he caught her gaze again, "I was exactly the same." From the look on his face, that meant something important to him.

Jo's eyebrows knit in confusion. "Henry, what are you trying to—" Her phone rang again, and she swore as she reached into her pocket.

He leaned back slightly in defeat. The moment was gone. "It seems that it _is_ urgent after all. You'd better get that."

She gave him an apologetic grimace as she answered. "Martinez. Hi, David, what's up?" As she listened to the caller, Henry watched her face turn from curious to ashen, and all thought of how to salvage his own plan disappeared. At last she replied flatly, "Thanks for telling me. Yeah. Okay. Bye." She hung up.

Now it was his turn to prompt her out of silence. "Who is David?"

She kept staring at the blank screen of her phone as she answered. "He's an attorney with the DA's office, part of the team working on a major corruption case. He wasn't even supposed to tell me about this, but he and Sean were friends, so..." She took an unsteady breath.

Henry knelt in front of her, gently moving her phone to the table and taking her hands. He'd never seen her this shaken. "What's happened?"

"New evidence has come to light in the case he was working when he— They think he might—" She stopped. Took another breath. He squeezed her hands. She looked up, and tried again.

"They think Sean might have been murdered. They want to exhume his body."


	2. TRUTH, OBSCURED

_There is nothing kept in secret that will not come to light._

~Luke 8:17

* * *

Henry had expected a difficult night for both Jo and himself, but the cause was supposed to be him revealing his secret. With this new twist of fate, he suspected that the awful night would now be entirely hers, and there was precious little he could do to help.

After Jo hung up from learning about the DA's intentions, Henry tried to convince her to stay the night.

"You've just had an awful shock. From what your lawyer friend said, you aren't even supposed to know yet, so nothing can be done tonight. You shouldn't be alone right now. We'll make up the couch—"

Jo waved off the invitation. "No, I'm—I'm okay. It was a shock, but I'm fine, Henry, really." She had begun moving quickly through the apartment, gathering up her things and putting on her coat as she spoke.

He gave her a stern look. "I don't believe that for a second."

"Okay," she conceded, "no, I'm not _fine_ fine, but I'm capable of driving home. Right now I just want to gather my thoughts and get some sleep so I can be ready for whatever comes tomorrow. The DA might not move forward until Monday, anyway."

Seeing that she wasn't likely to be deterred, Henry reached across her when she got to the door and opened it for her.

He tried one last time. "Are you sure you won't stay?"

She paused on the threshold and turned to him, shaking her head. "Thank you for dinner. I'm sorry you didn't get to finish...what you wanted to tell me."

Henry dismissed the idea with a shake of his head and put a hand on each of her shoulders. "That is the last thing you should be worrying about right now. Get home safely and get some sleep. Let me know if there's anything I can do. Anything at all."

She impulsively leaned forward to kiss his cheek, allowing herself a moment to rest there and breathe in the reassuring presence of him. "Thanks."

She pulled back, and his eyes held a sad, knowing look. "You aren't going to sleep at all tonight, are you?"

She smiled but only said, "Good night, Henry."

* * *

He'd been right. She hadn't slept a wink.

She really had tried. She knew there was nothing she could do until the DA contacted her. She had tried to sleep, but she just couldn't. Her brain was spinning in so many directions it was making her physically dizzy. Good thing she was lying down.

_  
How was this possible?_

_How was this fair?  
_

Just when she was beginning to put Sean to rest, beginning to heal and move on, someone wanted to literally dig him up again? The wife in her was horrified by the thought of disturbing his grave, not to mention her fragile peace.

On the other hand, the cop in her was considering all the possibilities. For the last few months, the DA had been embroiled in an ugly legal battle against a powerful politician and his million-dollar lawyers. From what she'd heard, it wasn't going well.

There had never been any whisper of foul play at the time of Sean's death, so this might all be a desperate grasp for evidence that wasn't there, and it would all come to nothing. For her, it would be worse than nothing. She would end up back where she started, dulling the pain with whiskey and anonymous men.

But what if.

What if Sean really had been murdered? If so, she damn well wanted to know, and then find the bastard responsible, and then make him—or them—pay. She didn't know the details of the DA's case, but she would damn well find that out, too.

She just wished there was a path to truth and justice that didn't involve marching in cleated jackboots over her own heart. Again.

_Let me know if there's anything I can do. Anything at all._

Henry's words came back to her as she lay there staring at the ceiling. She closed her eyes and breathed in the memory of the scent of him. Nothing fancy, just clean soap and something specifically Henry. Like how she imagined a grandfather might smell as a dapper young man, simultaneously both young and old and sort of...timeless. It was a weird description for someone as practical as her, but it seemed to fit him and his style of genteel anachronism.

She was glad to have Henry in her corner. They were both private people, and their friendship was still finding its way, but it was nice to have a person again. She suspected that she would need one before this case was over.

* * *

Henry hadn't slept much either, but that wasn't unusual. He had brushed up on some research that might pertain to Sean's case, then came in early, knowing that Jo would do the same.

Sure enough, it was barely 8 a.m. when she came through his office doors.

He stood and came around to her side of the desk.

"How are you?" he asked.

"I'm fine." She answered quickly and with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Her face was carefully expressionless, though she hadn't been able to hide the dark circles under her eyes. She was wearing the professional mask she would need to make it through this case without crumbling, and he respectfully didn't try to breach it.

She went on. "The DA herself called me this morning—so much for waiting until Monday. You know the ongoing case against Senator Palmer?" Henry nodded; everyone in New York not living in a subway tunnel knew about that case.

"It seems," she said, "that the case Sean was working on in D.C. the week he died had no direct connection to Palmer, but now the DA believes that the man scheduled to give the deposition, Ted Lackey, happened to be taking bribes from Palmer's office at the time, with his full knowledge. Possibly to falsify federal election results."

Henry's eyebrows arched. "Evidence like that would certainly go a long way in helping the DA's case."

Jo nodded. "The problem is, they don't have it. Not hard evidence, anyway. Just bits of heresay and witnesses who won't go on record."

"And how does Sean's death fit in?" he asked.

"His case involving Lackey was too close to call. Sean couldn't talk details, but I could tell he was worried about it before he left."

_Before we fought, and I started thinking only about myself._

Henry saw on her face that she was spiraling into a painful memory, and he pulled her back with cold, comforting facts. "After his death, I assume the scales unwittingly tipped in Palmer's favor?"

Jo nodded. "The case lost momentum. Lackey backed out and never went on record. It was never brought to trial, and the court never heard any evidence against Palmer that might have come out if Lackey thought it would buy him a lighter sentence."

Jo got to the crux of the matter. "Now that Lackey's _alleged_ connection to Palmer has come to light, the DA's office thinks what happened to Sean was too much of a coincidence. They want to reexamine him for any sign that his heart attack was not natural."

"And what did you say?" he asked.

"I told them they would have my consent under one condition." She took a step closer. "Henry, you know what I'm going to ask."

He did, but all night he had hoped there was another way. "Are you sure about this? Jo, disinterment is a traumatic process for families in any case, more so when it's part of a public investigation."

"Do you think I want this?" she exclaimed, then lowered her voice to an intense half-whisper. "Do you think I have a choice?"

The lab techs now beginning to arrive didn't need to see her coming apart at the seams. She inhaled, exhaled, and continued, her mask restored. "Like you said, this is a very public investigation, and the DA needs every card she can play. If I don't consent, they'll only get a court order.

"The process will happen more quickly and look better to the public if I'm on board," she said, "and I told her I am only on board if you are the lead M.E. on the new autopsy."

She couldn't entirely hide the vulnerability in her voice when she finally asked,

"Will you do it, Henry? Please?"

His heart was breaking for her. After all these months she had finally begun dealing with her grief, facing her regrets, saying goodbye—and now this. This was the last thing she needed.

But she was right: it was going to happen with or without her consent. At least this way, he could use his hard-earned understanding of death to help his partner discover the truth, put this behind her—again—and rejoin the land of the living.

All false modesty aside, he _was_ the best.

"Of course I'll do it." He reached out to squeeze her arm briefly before returning to a more professional distance. "But I have a condition of my own. Once Sean's body arrives, you mustn't be here. I will bring you regular reports on my findings, but I won't even allow you in the lab."

She nodded in agreement, grateful for the ultimatum. "Thank you. There's no one else I trust with this. With him."

"If there is anything to find, I will find it." His words were sure, and as solemn as an oath.


	3. TRUTH, UNEARTHED

_Death cancels everything but truth._

_~William Hazlitt_

* * *

After leaving Henry's office, Jo called the DA to confirm that she would support the disinterment. She also dangled one more carrot, with a condition.

"I'll even make a statement of support for the media if you want."

The DA, Barbara Dunning, was a perceptive woman. "That is very generous under the circumstances, Detective. Do I sense an "if" here?"

She did. "I want access," said Jo. "All the evidence you've gathered, all the case notes from the detectives in DC and here in New York, forensics reports, witness interviews—"

"You know I can't show you everything."

"I'm not asking for everything. But let me see the case for myself. I need to see it for myself."

Dunning paused a moment to consider. She decided that the support of Sean Moore's widow, who was also NYPD, was worth the risk. "Tomorrow morning I will send you everything we have that pertains to the criminal investigation. Our legal case is not on the table. Keep in mind that whatever leads you think you find, you have no jurisdiction in this case, Detective."

"Understood."

The DA wasn't quite finished. "May I be completely honest with you, Jo?"

"By all means, Barbara."

Dunning didn't back down from the subtle challenge. "It's Dr. Morgan. I've been reading up on your M.E., and I must admit to serious concerns."

"He may be a bit...unorthodox, but he's the best."

"So you say."

Jo started to protest, but Dunning cut her off. "Before you rise to his defense, I know his record. The man has a very impressive success rate, especially when he's working with you. But he also colors outside the lines. If he does find evidence of foul play, Senator Palmer's lawyers will try to spin "unorthodox" into "unreliable." What we need right now is someone who is above reproach, not a man with two arrests for indecent exposure, for God's sake.

"I know you respect his skills, Detective, but can you honestly say he's the right man to see this through?"

Jo recognized the truth in what Dunning was saying. She also had no doubt in her mind, or in her gut, that Henry would do everything he could to help her through this. If that meant playing it straight for once, he would. She hoped he wouldn't change too much, though, because she suspected that his mad methods were part of what made him the best.

"Henry knows what's at stake. He won't let me down."

"I hope you're right. Or this will all be for nothing."

* * *

Henry spent the rest of Sunday studying the original coroner's report on Sean Moore. On paper, the doctor appeared to have done a respectable job, executing every step and recording his findings with all due diligence. Henry even tracked down the man's home number (apparently some people didn't work on Sundays?) and spoke with him directly about what he remembered. He had seen no evidence of foul play in his examination.

Of course, thought Henry, there had been no reason to look for any. Henry would certainly be looking this time.

That night during dinner he updated Abe on what was happening.

"That poor woman," Abe sympathized. "I know she's a tough cookie, but this is too much. Thank God you can be there for her."

Henry looked down into his wine glass as he swirled the contents thoughtfully. "Yes, well, I'm glad my skills can be of some use to her."

"I'm not talking about cutting open bodies, Henry. What she needs most right now is a friend."

"Helping her learn the truth about Sean's death is the best way I can help her," Henry answered. "Of course I want to be her friend as well, but I don't know if that's an option anymore."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Abe, I am dissecting her husband's body tomorrow. Will she ever be able to look at me again without picturing the unthinkable?"

To his credit, Abe didn't dismiss Henry's concerns out of hand. "Well, you trust her enough to tell her your secret, or at least you want to—you do still want to, right?" Henry nodded, and Abe continued. "You wouldn't do that with just anybody. I think you realize that she knows how to take the bitter with the sweet. Life can't be lived without a little death mixed in—more so for some of us than others, but still. Jo can handle your secret, and she can handle your involvement in this case."

"You may be right," Henry conceded.

"Of course I'm right," Abe said blithely. "But another thing: if you thought it might jeopardize your friendship, why did you agree to do the autopsy?"

Henry realized with surprise that the answer was simple. "Because she asked me to."

He was beginning to realize a lot of things. Like how much power Jo had over him. If she asked, he might do just about anything for her.

* * *

The disinterment was scheduled for Monday afternoon. On Monday morning, the DA was as good as her word. Two boxes filled with notes, video files, and copies of police reports appeared on Jo's desk. She emailed her promised statement to Dunning's assistant, carefully worded to "fully support the DA's difficult decision to pursue this avenue of investigation," blah blah blah.

Jo had called Lt. Reece on Sunday to update her on the situation. Reece quickly offered her the day off, officially anyway, so that she was free to delve into the files. Like Dunning, her lieutenant also stressed that this was purely for Jo's own information, and she had no jurisdiction to act on anything she discovered.

She was poring over file after file until the moment she left for the cemetery. The evidence against Palmer felt like a 5,000-piece puzzle with no box top to guide her, and probably several hundred pieces missing. Even so, a vague outline was starting to emerge.

* * *

Henry usually waited at the lab for remains to arrive, but this time he wanted to be present on site to assure that all went smoothly. He also wanted to support Jo, although he honestly couldn't tell if she wanted him there or not, despite her brief smile when he arrived.

He stood next to her, side-by-side but not touching, watching from a safe distance as the crane lifted the coffin from the ground, dirt crumbling off the sides as it rose. Neither of them said more than a few words.

Her eyes never left the coffin until the hearse was loaded and began to pull away, then she turned to him.

"Do whatever you need to do. Let's make this count."

He nodded, and she turned and walked away.

* * *

She was glad to see Henry at the cemetery. It actually caught her off-guard when she saw him walking toward her, and she realized how much she'd been hoping he would come.

Asking him to perform the autopsy had been more difficult than she'd expected. After all, that was his job. But investigating your partner's family was a field of land mines at best, which was why it was usually forbidden by the department. Only the unofficial nature of their partnership allowed him to do this for her now.

When she had finally gotten the words out, he had said yes, with no hesitation. For her.

Ever since then she had been distant, but that was only a defense mechanism, a way to make it through the day. And then the next day. She wasn't disgusted that he would be the one examining Sean. Maybe she should be, but she wasn't. Instead, it was a comfort to her, and she felt incredibly grateful. She hoped he knew that, though she had no words to tell him. Not yet.

They barely said ten words as they watched the coffin's careful progress, but she felt his presence next to her, holding her up. Not with macho comfort or platitudes, but just by standing shoulder-to-shoulder and being there.

He knew her so well. Somehow, in the last few months, this odd man had become her best friend.

There at the mouth of Sean's open grave, she wasn't sure how to feel about that.

* * *

Henry arrived back at the lab just as the techs were placing the remains on the exam table.

He would have arrived sooner, but he had waited until Jo was out of sight before climbing into the empty grave to collect soil samples. Any chemicals that leeched into or out of the body could affect the tox reports, and he wasn't going to trust a mere tech to gather evidence this important.

Lucas was waiting, looking more solemn than usual. He had prepared Henry's tools just the way he liked them, and Henry gave him a nod of acknowledgment. Silently he buttoned up his lab coat, pulled on his gloves, and started the voice recorder.

He rarely used recorders; his memory was excellent, so accurate case notes were not a problem. Starting now, however, every step he took would be completely by the book and on record. He had never minded his reputation for unorthodox methods, but now it might hurt the case and prolong Jo's suffering. He wouldn't apologize for who he was or how he worked, but when it came to Sean Moore's case, every "i" would be dotted.

"Subject is Sean Moore, died March 15th, 2014, interred shortly thereafter, disinterred May 25th, 2015. Medical Examiner Henry Morgan performing second autopsy to reexamine cause of death."

Unable to contain his anxiety, Lucas burst in, "Doesn't this freak you out? Even a little?"

Henry paused the recording and looked up with vague disapproval. "I do not freak out, Lucas. I do my job. And right now, my job is to determine how this man died."

His assistant wasn't convinced. "But this is Jo's husband—your partner's husband. What if she can never look at you the same way again?"

Henry didn't admit that the exact same thought—the same fear—was still looping through his own mind. "That may be true, Lucas, but today we are in a unique position to help her find some answers, and some peace. And we will do so to the best of our ability. Now are you ready?"

Lucas nodded, and Henry looked down at the body of Sean Moore.

"Let's begin."


	4. TRUTH, UNWELCOME

_Better to be slapped with the truth than kissed with a lie._

_~Russian proverb_

* * *

His examination was finished. All findings had been recorded and samples sent to the lab. Lab results were a necessary confirmation, but Henry knew what had happened, the same way he always knew: Sean's body had spoken to him.

He was standing silently over the closed body, and Lucas was loitering nearby in a casually not-casual way until Henry spoke.

"Go home, Lucas. I'll finish up."

"When are you going to tell Jo?"

"Tonight, before I submit my report to the DA. Jo deserves to know first. I just need to gather my thoughts."

Lucas usually, and wisely, didn't touch his boss, but he gave Henry a supportive shoulder grip as he passed by, and Henry was too preoccupied to mind.

"I don't think anyone else would have caught it, Doc." He left it at that, and left the lab.

Henry knew he should put this body in the locker and go find Jo, that she had been waiting for hours to hear from him, but he felt compelled to stay a few more minutes. He had so much experience with death—both his own and other people's—but not with this phase. Not with the steady march of decay.

He rarely went to funerals. Other people with that aversion were usually uncomfortable with death, but Henry had put that behind him centuries ago.

The truth was, he avoided funerals like lonely people avoided weddings. He was jealous.

Sean's was no longer a freshly prepared body, "life-like" by funeral standards. Decay had been slowed by the embalming process, but the passage of over a year was still very evident. Instead of feeling a tickle of mortality at the sight, Henry felt cheated. A natural life, gray hair, old age, and eventually death were things he might never have. While Henry continued to cycle through countless deaths offset by countless awakenings, the man before him had lived once and died once, even if he had died too young.

Knowing the cause made it no less tragic or unjust, and Henry questioned whether Jo would find any solace in the truth, no matter how he delivered it.

But at least she would know.

* * *

She had gone back to the precinct after leaving the cemetery, but there were too many eyes. Sympathetic eyes in sympathetic faces on sympathetic colleagues who knew where she had been that afternoon. They also knew what Henry was doing downstairs in the morgue.

After an hour of sideways glances and well-meaning smiles, she gathered up one box full of material that looked promising and went home.

Hanson tried to convince her to stay. "Don't take this home, Jo. Leave it for tomorrow. Or if you have to, stay, and I'll help you sort through it."

"Thanks, Mike, but I need to get out of here, and I'm not done..." She wasn't sure how to finish that. "I'm not done."

He sighed, and nodded, and let her go.

Once she was home, she spread the files out in a jumbled layer across her dining room table, sorting and re-sorting as the pieces fell into place.

She understood now why the DA was risking so much in a public battle with Senator Palmer. Everything he touched fell in his favor, but without being too obvious, and without leaving any evidence in plain sight. Campaign finance coffers grew just enough but not too much; a few votes tipped his way at just the right time; opponents quietly melted away into personal bankruptcy or "more time with family." Jo was sure that Palmer was dirty, and with every file she studied, she was more convinced that he was capable of murder.

But would he leave any evidence? Henry might be the only person on earth who could answer that.

She was so engrossed in the files that he had to ring the doorbell twice and knock before she heard him. She knew it could only be Henry. She didn't even bother looking through the window first before she unlocked the door and swung it open.

He looked up at her with an inscrutable look. "May I come in?"

Always the gentleman. She showed him into the dining room.

He had never been further inside her home than the entry hall. His keen eye took in the tasteful design and pricey but practical furniture. It might have been her husband's salary that allowed her to afford it, but he saw her influence everywhere in subtle touches: art on the wall that challenged and intrigued; the filmy dining room curtains that were swaying slightly in the night breeze. Jo and Sean's marriage had been a partnership in the best sense. They had been happy here.

His gaze settled on the barely-controlled chaos on the table. "You've been busy."

She ignored the comment as a stall for time. "What did you find?"

"Before I tell you, tell me this: will it change anything?"

Jo creased her eyebrows. "What are you talking about? Of course it will. Henry, if you found conclusive evidence, it will blow this case wide open."

He stepped closer. "But what will it change for _you_? Will knowing what killed Sean change the way you remember him? Will it change the life he lived, or the love you had for each other? I don't want what I say next to take that away from you."

She was losing patience. "I am not playing grief counselor with you tonight. Just tell me what you found."

"I found out that he was happy."

She crossed her arms. "You can tell that from an autopsy?"

"I can," he countered. "I found a man with a healthy liver; he drank sometimes, but not to excess. I found a man with a healthy brain; no signs of illicit drug use or disease. I found the heart of a man who exercised and ate right."

He broke through the invisible circle he'd been skirting since Saturday and stepped closer to her.

"He wanted his life—his life with you—to be as long as it could be. But it's not always up to us."

"No more lectures, Henry. Tell me how my husband died." Her voice was tightly controlled, but he sensed the current of emotion underneath that was threatening to break through the ice.

He answered her in measured tones. "We're still waiting for the official lab results, but I personally ran toxicology tests for every substance in the database that could cause a heart attack, or masquerade as one. I also tested for several poisons that haven't been reported in the US for over 100 years. They all came back negative.

"What I did find," he said, in a voice that was nearly a whisper, "was an abnormality in his heart."

She was unconsciously starting to slowly shake her head even before he finished.

"It's called Brugada Syndrome. Very rare, and very difficult to diagnose in living patients. A tiny structural defect caused his heart to slip out of rhythm, and it never recovered."

He reached for her arm. "Jo, there was no murder here."

* * *

Jo's brain was slow to catch up with what Henry was saying. It felt as if she'd been drinking, even though she hadn't touched a drop since dinner on Saturday.

She shook her head more emphatically now, and shook off his hold on her arm.

"No. That can't be true. Not after what I've read today about Palmer. You must have missed something."

_When had she started to hope Sean had been murdered_? If she was honest with herself, it was the moment she hung up the phone with David. Murder was sacrifice. Sacrifice held meaning. Heart attacks in healthy men were just dumb luck.

She tried to rally her logical mind and argued, "He could have been poisoned. He's been—" She couldn't say _dead_ — "It's been over a year. Some poisons would have broken down and disappeared, right? The killer could have used one of those."

"Yes," Henry conceded, "there are some poisons we have no way of testing for at this point. But Jo, that's not what killed him. I held his heart in my hands; I saw the malformation. It was tiny, but it was enough. It was only a matter of time. I am so sorry."

Empathy and regret filled his eyes. She realized that Henry almost wished that Sean had been murdered, for her sake. But he hadn't been. Henry knew it, and Jo knew he was right. When it came to death, he always was.

Sean's death was meaningless after all. It was a stupid, ordinary death. He had simply stopped breathing and left her.

"No. _No_. NO!"

Her voice rose with each word until she was yelling, and her fists came down on his chest like punctuation.

"Not again! I can't— It's not—" She was gulping for air after each few words.

He let her hit him a few more times as grief and hysteria washed over her. Then he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close as she fell apart.

Any semblance of control disappeared with that kindness. She sobbed into his neck for either five minutes or fifty; she couldn't be sure. She only knew that he was right: Sean had died of a heart attack after all. Random. Meaningless.

She had also been right: being back where she started was much worse the second time around.

At least this time there was someone holding her up. And that helped a little.

* * *

She cried in his arms until she was wrung out. One of his hands held the back of her head and other slowly rubbed her back, waiting for the wave of renewed grief to pass.

He didn't know what she had learned from the files spread across her table, but they had obviously given his normally pragmatic partner reason to suspect that Sean really had been murdered. A strange comfort, but not that strange. Finding an enemy and a greater cause gave meaning to the incomprehensible.

Then he had arrived at her door and taken away that comfort with cold truth.

He continued to gently rub her back, and gradually her sobs subsided. He murmured in her ear, "There's no use looking for sense in his death; I find that most deaths are senseless. Look to his life instead. Sean had a good life. A meaningful one. He helped so many people. Don't let the way it ended steal your joy in how he lived it with you."

She pulled her head back to dry her eyes and cheeks with her sleeves and attempted to salvage her pride.

"I'm sorry. I guess I was just hoping for someone to blame."

"You are such a brave woman. Do you realize that?" He cupped her head in his hands and held it in front of his own. "To face down this kind of pain twice in one year. Don't apologize to anyone for how you manage it."

She looked a little embarrassed, but it didn't stop her from confiding, "At the moment, I'm managing thanks to you. Don't leave town, okay?"

Henry smiled and leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers.

"I'm right here."

That's when he felt the sharp pinch between his shoulder blades, and the breath was knocked out of him. He fell to his knees, heard Jo cry his name, and wondered what he had done to get himself shot for the third time that month.


	5. TRUTH, UNEXPECTED

_It's no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense._

_~Mark Twain_

* * *

_  
Early morning light is streaming through the windows of his apartment, and he wakes up with a warm weight on his chest. He is half-reclined on the couch, and Jo is half-reclined on him._

_He smiles, remembering. After dinner, he told her the truth. She was shocked and skeptical of course, but she heard him out. They came down from the terrace, and he began to show her, piece by piece._

_Rays of sunlight are illuminating the items scattered on the coffee table, things he usually locks away that haven't seen the light of day in decades. His photo taken in front of the new Brooklyn Bridge, 1885. He and Abigail, smiling and holding the infant Abraham. Abe looking nervous with his parents and his date before the prom, 1963. One of Henry's notebooks with observations of his own deaths. The syringe of pentobarbital from his pocket, which Jo refused to let him use. He didn't need to, she said. She believed him._

_She told him it made a crazy kind of sense. Now she understood his sixth sense for death. She wasn't disgusted or afraid. She asked a lot of questions and listened as he answered. Sometimes Abe joined in, sometimes he just sat back and smiled._

_He told her about Nora and Abigail, and his fears about Adam. Abe went to bed, but he and Jo talked until sleep overtook them just before dawn._

_He sees what woke him now: Abe is making coffee, good strong espresso. Jo stirs as well, blinks, and orients herself to where she is. He sees the moment when her memory of last night rushes back, her face showing a small repeat performance of the surprise and wonder at learning his secret. She knows him now, better than anyone but Abe has in a long time, and he sees no fear in her. This makes him happier than he's felt in decades._

_She looks up into his eyes and says—  
_

"Henry! Oh God, Henry, stay with me."

Reality jarred back into place with an intense stab of pain. Jo wasn't resting peacefully in his arms; she had caught him as he collapsed. She was looking down at him wide-eyed as he lay on her dining room floor, bleeding heavily and unable to move. He said a regretful farewell to his fantasy version of events, because it was time to face facts. The most pressing fact was the bullet lodged in his chest cavity, by way of his spine. In about five minutes, his careful plan to gently reveal his secret would no longer be an option. Make that three minutes. Maybe less.

Jo was about to learn her second life-altering truth of the day.

"Hang on, we'll have the ambulance here in five minutes." She pulled off his scarf and pressed it to the wound in his back, her hand between him and the floor. With her other hand she fumbled in her pocket, trying to pull out her phone without lessening the pressure.

She had it in her hand before he managed to cry, "No!"

She took his protest as a cry of fear. "Don't try to talk, Henry, just keep your eyes open until—" She had unlocked the screen by the time he managed to move his arm. He reached for her hand and gripped it with surprising strength, and the phone clattered to the floor next to him.

"No! Don't call 911, please!"

"Henry, you've been shot. You're going to die if you don't get help."

"I'm going to die anyway. Jo, listen to me." It took strength he didn't have to spare, but the intensity of his plea got her to stop and listen. "I'm going to be fine. I promise."

"You just said you were going to die!"

He grunted in pain. "Don't have time to explain. Call Abe, he'll know what to do." He tried to tighten his grip on her hand, but his strength was leaving him. "I'm sorry, Jo. I tried to tell you—but now you'll know. I'm glad you'll know."

He was incoherent, and Jo could sense that it was too late for an ambulance. Her partner was about to die in front of her. "Henry, don't do this to me. Not tonight."

"I'm so sorry," he said again. "But Jo, something is about to—after it happens, call Abe. Promise me you'll call Abe first." His grip slackened and he smiled weakly. "See you soon." He closed his eyes, released a breath, and was still.

"Henry? Henry!" Jo knew he was gone. She was waiting for that reality to overcome the numbing shock in her mind when suddenly—

He really was gone.

She was kneeling on the floor of her dining room, completely alone, without a drop of blood anywhere.

 _It's happened. I am actually, literally going crazy_. That was her first thought. She was pretty sure that crazy people weren't that self-aware, but she'd never gone crazy before, so how would she know?

She realized she was gripping something in her left hand, and she looked down.

It was Henry's scarf. It was still crushed into a ball from being used to staunch his bleeding, except there was no blood. And no Henry.

She looked up for the first time and scanned the room. Across from her place near the open window, a bullet was embedded in the wall. In the midst of Henry's shooting, she hadn't even noticed the second shot. Or maybe the one in the wall was the only shot; her own insanity still seemed like a viable option.

Her detective brain gave up on offering solutions; not a single thing made sense. Only two words cut through the haze:

_Call Abe._

She reached for her phone.

* * *

Abe was worried about Henry and Jo. Not worried for their safety, but worried for their happiness. This business with Jo's late husband was tricky, and he only hoped that when the dust settled, they would find a way forward in their partnership.

His cell phone rang, and he checked the caller ID: Jo Martinez. He picked up.

"Hello, Detective. Are you looking for Henry?"

The line was silent for a moment. "Abe?" Her voice sounded strained, barely under control, and he cut right to the chase.

"Jo, what's happened? Where are you?"

"At home. Henry was here. I think. I think he was shot. But then he— But his scarf is still here, so..." She trailed off.

Well. It looked like they were going to do this the hard way, after all. With the phone still pressed to his ear he locked the front door to the shop and flipped the sign to 'Closed.'

"Jo, listen to me. I'm sure you're freaking out right now, but you are not going crazy. Understand? Repeat that."

"Not going crazy."

"Good. Repeat that as often as you need to, and I'll be there in less than an hour." He hurried to Henry's room and grabbed some clothes and a towel. "And Jo?"

"Yes?"

"Henry is alive. Trust me. He'll explain everything soon."

* * *

When Abe pulled up to Henry's usual spot along the riverside parkway, he was sitting on a park bench, legs crossed, holding a salvaged newspaper open to cover as much of himself as he could manage while also trying to look casual. He was mostly succeeding at the first goal, failing at the second.

At the sight of Abe's car, he wrapped the paper around his waist and made a bee-line for the passenger door. He climbed in, left the paper outside, and gratefully accepted a towel instead. Neither man spoke for a moment as Henry rubbed his dripping hair. Finally he said, "Jo called you?"

Abe nodded. "How did you manage to get shot in her townhouse?"

Henry's face was grim. "I don't know yet. The shot came through an open window, I suspect from a marksman's rifle at some distance. It could just as easily have hit Jo. Maybe that was the intention, I don't know." He began pulling on his clothes. "But as much as I want to find out who shot me and why, we have a more pressing concern first."

Abe glanced at him sympathetically as he steered towards Jo's neighborhood. "I don't suppose you got the chance to tell her the truth before you died and vanished before her eyes?"

"I'm afraid not," he said. "How did she sound on the phone?"

Abe thought about the strong, capable detective, and the epically bad day she'd had already. He imagined how she might react to Henry's story, once she realized he wasn't dead but a big fat liar instead.

"Well," he finally said, "here's hoping you're not murdered twice tonight."

* * *

Jo looked at the clock. It was almost 8:30. She had called Abe at 7:40. She turned yet again to stare at the open window, then the bullet hole in the wall, then the clean patch of floor where she'd watched Henry bleed and die and disappear. Then she started over again with the window.

A knock at the door broke her out of that three-sided loop. She walked at a deliberately steady pace, determined to control her reaction to whatever was waiting for her.

She opened the door, and there he was. He had changed clothes, and his hair was damp, but otherwise he looked exactly the same as when he had appeared on her step an hour ago. Completely healthy.

She didn't know what to say, and apparently neither did he. They stood there on either side of the doorway staring at each other for long seconds, until he finally fell back on civility.

"May I come in?"

She nodded and stepped aside. Henry walked past her into the entry hall, but Abe declined.

"You two have a lot to talk about. I'll be at home if you need me." Before he turned away, he spoke softly to Jo. "Don't be too hard on him. He's wanted to tell you for months."

She gave him a small smile and he turned back towards his car. She smiled because Abe was a kind man; it was not a promise. How she would react to Henry's explanation was not something she could predict right now.

She turned at last to the man himself, who was watching her cautiously, like he was looking for signs of impending disaster. She had yet to say a word.

Finally she stepped closer and held her hands to the sides of his head, then to the sides of his shoulders, measuring his solidity.

"You're not dead." It was a statement, mostly.

"No, I'm not," he confirmed, and she pulled him in for a tight hug that he returned with relief.

"I'm glad." Regardless of what else was going on, that much was true.

She suddenly pulled back and braced the fingers of one hand on his chest to distance him, pinning him with a challenging stare. "But you did die, didn't you? I didn't imagine that?"

He sighed. "No, you didn't."

"Because I thought I was going crazy. Then again, maybe I still am." She stepped away and started pacing. "Maybe you're not really here. Maybe you're some figment of my cracked psyche sent to comfort me, since my husband basically died all over again today, and if I lost my partner in the same day, I truly would lose my mind. And why the HELL does your hair look wet and smell like the river again?"

She knew she was ranting, but she had earned the right.

He touched his hair as if to confirm the obvious. "Because that's where I was—in the river. Jo, something happened to me years ago, something I can't explain, but ever since then...I can't die. Or rather, I never stay dead. Each time I die, I reappear in water, restored to health. Here in New York it always seems to be in the East River."

She had stopped pacing to stare at him. "You can't die."

"That's right."

"And I just saw you…what? Regenerate?"

"I prefer 'reawaken.'" He smiled wryly. "I'm not that kind of Doctor."

She was in no mood for nerd humor. "How many people know about this?"

"Currently just you and Abe, and a man who calls himself Adam. He first contacted me in—"

She held up a hand, and he stopped abruptly. "I'm sorry, Henry," she started. "Just—give me a minute." He complied, though it was clear on his face how difficult a minute of silence was going to be for him right then.

She focused just above the collar of his shirt, because those fathomless eyes of his were not helping her think. For now, she needed to stick to basic facts. _Henry isn't dead. You did see him die, but now he's here, and he's fine. He's fine because every time he dies, he pops out of the East River and goes casually back to whatever he was—no. Deal with that later. Henry is not dead._

That was enough. Enough for tonight.

Now that some of her equilibrium was restored, she looked up and met the very worried look in his eyes. She dropped her hand. "You clearly have a lot to tell me, and there are a million things I need to ask, but I've had an hour to think about this, and your story needs to wait."

He looked surprised, even hurt by her dismissal, so she took him by the hand and led him back into the dining room. His eyes were drawn directly to the spot where he had died just an hour ago, but she continued on to the other side of the room and faced him towards the wall.

He immediately understood her haste. "There was a second shot."

"Yes, and I need to call this in. The open window was a piece of luck, since none of the neighbors heard breaking glass, but our timeline is already off by an hour and counting. If we want to catch whoever did this, we need to get CSU out here now. The sooner we call, the less difficult it'll be to fudge the timeline."

He nodded. "You're right, of course. There will be time to talk about my...condition...later."

"Your 'condition'?" she repeated the odd description. "That makes it sound so mundane, like dandruff."

He smiled wryly. "It's slightly more exotic than dandruff."

She held her hand up again. "Seriously, Henry, no more details tonight. For now I'm leaving it at 'you're not dead' or I'll never make it through the next few hours. We'll talk about the rest later." She pulled out her phone. "Now go upstairs and take a shower while I call Hanson." He looked at her in confusion, and she sighed. "You still smell like river. So unless you plan to tell the whole precinct you just "reawakened", or else went skinny dipping again…"

"Good point."

She pointed towards the stairs. "There are towels in the hall closet."

He didn't turn yet. "Jo—" he began, searching for the right words. "Thank you for understanding."

"Oh, I am about a million miles from understanding. But you're my partner. I've got your back."


	6. TRUTH, SLANTED

__  
Tell all the truth but tell it slant —  
Success in Circuit lies  
Too bright for our infirm Delight  
The Truth's superb surprise  
As Lightning to the Children eased  
With explanation kind  
The Truth must dazzle gradually  
Or every man be blind — 

_~Emily Dickinson  
_

* * *

Hanson and CSU arrived at Jo's townhouse within 20 minutes. Thanks to a very quick shower and the use of Jo's hair dryer, Henry was back in the dining room and no longer smelling like dead fish by the time they arrived. He even had time to borrow Jo's computer to hit 'submit' on his long-overdue report to the DA's office.

"Thanks for coming," said Jo when she answered the door.

"Don't be ridiculous, of course I came," said Hanson. This wasn't a murder and therefore outside his usual job description, but the precinct took care of their own when they could.

Jo led the team to the scene of the crime, and Hanson cocked his head in surprise when he saw the M.E. "Henry! What are you doing here? Is there a body I don't know about?"

Henry side-stepped the question. "Well, you know me, Detective. I love to be where the action is." He wondered why Jo hadn't mentioned his presence in her phone call. Maybe she had been leaving his options open, in case he wanted to stay out of the investigation altogether. His glance slid in her direction; less than two hours in and already she was better at keeping his secret than he was.

"You were here when it happened?" asked Hanson, and Henry nodded. "You both all right?"

Jo answered. "We're fine—although I don't know what this shooter has against my curtains," she added, with the typical gallows humor of law enforcement.

Hanson pulled out his notebook and flipped it open. "All right, take me through it. You left the precinct around 4:30..."

"Yeah. I came straight home and kept working on the Palmer case." She gestured at the piles on the table. "I was busy with that until Henry got here."

"And what time was that, Doc?"

Henry spoke up. "Around 7 o'clock. I came straight from the lab."

Hanson looked up from his notebook, suddenly realizing why Henry had come. He glanced between Henry and Jo. "Did you find anything? Was he…?"

Henry looked to Jo as well; sharing the results, or not, should be her decision.

She held his gaze for a moment of understanding before turning to Hanson and shaking her head, saying simply, "Sean had a heart condition."

Hanson looked like he was about to say something, but Jo didn't give him the chance. "After Henry shared his results," she continued, "I filled him in on what I'd found so far in the files, and he offered to help me sort through the medical ones. At around 8:30, we heard the impact and saw the bullet in the wall. We both dropped to the floor, but there was no further activity. Then I called you."

"And where were you standing when the shooter fired?"

She and Henry both walked to the side of the table closest to the window and looked down. "It was here," said Henry. "We were right here." Both of their gazes got distant for a moment, like they were reliving events—which they were, just not the same events Hanson was imagining.

He spotted something and knelt down. "What's this?" He picked up a wad of patterned burgundy fabric from under the table, the silk crushed and hopelessly wrinkled.

"Ah, that's mine," said Henry, reaching for it. "I must have dropped it in the excitement."

"I gotta say, Doc, I'm disappointed," said Hanson when he handed it over. "You usually treat your frou-frou scarves better than that."

"It's been an unusual night."

"I bet."

CSU photographed the room, took measurements and calculated angles, and dug the bullet out of the wall. When they examined the curtains, they found the expected hole in the fabric. In fact, they found two.

"Yes," Henry said, slipping into his standard crime scene lecture mode. "The curtains had been gathered here in the center of the window at the time, and the bullet must have passed through two layers at once. I later closed them."

Jo carefully schooled her face not to react. This was a lie, of course—the curtains had been closed the whole time—but without a victim or a second bullet in the wall, Henry needed a one-bullet theory to be true. She started to wonder how many other times he had lied to them to protect his impossible secret, but then she shoved the thought firmly back into her "Deal With It Later" box.

Hanson was examining the curtains and goading Henry. "You disturbed the crime scene?" he chided.

Henry looked at him like the answer was obvious. "Someone was shooting at us. Obstructing his or her line of sight seemed prudent."

Hanson gave Jo the "I'm sorry I asked" look he wore most of the time he spent with Henry.

Ever the referee between Henry and the normals, Jo offered, "I can reset the curtains close to where they were, if that'll help place the shooter."

The lead CSU investigator shook his head. "Don't bother. We've got a good angle of entry from the bullet's position. Love the accent wall, by the way." He indicated the warm orange color of the paint that had been marred by the shot.

"Thanks," she said, and hesitated before adding, "It was Sean's idea. I teased him about being metro, but he always did have an eye." She kept her gaze on the wall and waited for the wave of pain that usually accompanied memories of her husband, but it never came. She was surprised to find herself smiling a little. The memory was still rimmed with loss—and yes, pain—but at its core it was a happy one.

Standing there staring at paint, it hit her: _Maybe there is life after his death, after all._

She was pretty sure she had Henry Morgan to thank for this revelation. Henry, her partner and apparent mysterious being, who was currently hanging half his immortal body out the window.

"Henry?" she said in confusion. "What are you doing?"

"Doc, get your butt back in here before you kill yourself." Hanson hauled him back into the room by the collar of his jacket. "You're worse than my kids."

Henry was unfazed. "Within the margin of error for the bullet's trajectory, I see two—no, three—homes left unattended by vacationing residents. The shooter could easily have broken in and taken this shot from one of those windows. I suggest checking there first."

"How on earth can you tell who's on vacation?" asked Hanson.

"Do you really want to know?"

"No. I don't." He suddenly leaned in a bit and gave Henry a curious look.

"What?" asked Henry.

Hanson shook his head and straightened. "Nothing. Glad you're both okay, Doc. I'll send uniforms across the street."

* * *

Her fellow cops wrapped up around 11:00 and left with promises to keep Jo updated. She saw them out the front door and turned to face her partner, who was waiting expectantly in the doorway to the dining room.

"You too, Henry," she said, indicating the front door.

He blinked in surprise. "What? But we haven't even begun to discuss possible shooters, or...anything else."

She put a hand to her forehead, suddenly exhausted. "I know. But it has been a very, _very_ long day, and I need to sleep. Can we please do this tomorrow?"

"Yes, of course," he said, looking suddenly apologetic. "I should have considered—you've had a trying day."

She gave a humorless laugh. "What was it trying to do? Kill me?"

He didn't laugh. "It's not funny. You could've been killed tonight."

"And you were killed." She laughed again, this time in disbelief. "I can't believe I just said that. You died today. You died! You died on my dining room floor, and now you're fine." She took a breath and sighed it out. "Maybe tomorrow I can deal with this, but right now, reality is a little too unreal for me."

She opened the door, and he stepped outside.

"Shall I come by in the morning?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I'll call you when I'm ready. Good night, Henry."

"Good night, Jo."

She shut the door, and he stared at its red surface for a moment before turning and stepping down onto the lamplit sidewalk.

Her request was completely reasonable, he told himself. She was exhausted. Still, the metallic shuck of the bolt sliding home and locking him out sounded ominously loud to Henry's ears.

* * *

Abe was worried about Henry and Jo—again. This time for their health _and_ their happiness.

He liked the detective; he like her a lot. Her friendship with Henry was good for both of them, and who knew? Maybe someday, something more would grow? He knew better than anyone that Henry's life was complicated, but in his opinion, meeting a nice girl and actually living his life again would do his old man a world of good.

He chuckled to himself at the constant irony of his life. He wasn't the only son to have moments of role reversal with his father, but he thought he could safely say that his situation was unique.

It was nearly midnight when he heard the door open and shut. Henry didn't appear right away; instead, Abe could hear him shuffling through drawers and cabinets in the next room.

"Henry? How did it go?"

Henry didn't stop shuffling. "Abraham, where is my passport?"

That was never a good sign. "Did she react that badly?" Abe asked in surprise. "I was mostly kidding about her murdering you."

Henry finally came to stand in the living room and held out both palms helplessly. "I have no idea how she reacted."

"What do you mean, you have no idea? Weren't you there?"

"Yes, but I've never seen someone respond to my condition quite like it. I'm not sure what it means." He sank onto the couch in defeat, completely stymied by how to interpret his partner.

Abe prodded for details. "Was she angry, was she hurt, what?"

"First she said she was glad I was alive, and she hugged me—"

"Good start," Abe interjected.

"—then she yelled for a bit and told me I smelled like dead fish, and once I explained the absolute basics she got strangely calm and said she'd heard enough for tonight. After Hanson and CSU came and went, she sent me home."

"Well, what did you expect from that sensible partner of yours? Hysterics?"

"No, not that. Jo is the most level-headed person I know. I suppose I expected…something more. More than business as usual. This lack of reaction makes me very nervous."

Abe shrugged. "People process the impossible in all sorts of ways. And you are the most impossible person I know."

Henry raised an eyebrow at the sideways jab but said nothing.

"Anyway, " Abe continued, "I doubt she considers this 'business as usual'. She'll be ready for more after a good night's sleep." He paused, then hedged, "Probably. Maybe two nights. My advice: have a little faith in her, and don't pack your bags quite yet."

He stood up and started for bed. "Besides, I may or may not be holding your passport hostage until you and Jo work this out. You should get some sleep too."

Henry knew Abe had a point. He should be patient and give Jo time to refresh and process. She would come to him when she was ready. Hopefully, she would be ready soon.

After decades of maintaining a safe distance from personal relationships, he had forgotten how it felt to be so…vulnerable. The current life he had built, and the richer, more connected life he could have, both rested in Jo's hands. Maybe she _could_ accept who and what he was, and maybe someday she could forget the mental image of him cutting open Sean's heart, but he had no control over any of that. All he could do was wait.

* * *

Jo had never been so exhausted in her life—bone-deep, mind-numbingly exhausted. Every single one of her emotions had gone through the wringer—twice—and she'd been awake for most of three days and two nights. In some ways, she was grateful she felt brain-dead. If she had any energy left at all, she would be thinking about Henry, and Sean, and Senator Palmer, and Henry, and the hole in her dining room wall, and whether someone was trying to kill her—

—and Henry.

But she didn't think about any of that; she couldn't. She literally could not form the thoughts.

She got ready for bed on auto-pilot, and she was dead to the world the moment her head touched the pillow, if not before.

She slept until late morning without stirring once, and if she dreamed that she was painting a red accent wall in her bedroom when Henry suddenly emerged from the bathtub, naked and covered in seaweed, she was too deeply unconscious to remember.


	7. TRUTH, SECOND-GUESSED

_The truth will set you free. ~John 8:32_

_The truth will set you free. But first, it will piss you off. ~Gloria Steinem_

* * *

Jo woke up after a solid ten hours of sleep with two thoughts running through her mind:

_How is it possible that Henry can't die?_

_And how is it possible that I never noticed?_

To answer the first question, she knew she needed to have that talk with Henry. However, a calm, rational talk needed to wait, because the more she thought about the second question, the more it was pissing her off.

She didn't start with angry. She was a detective, so she started with facts. She remembered the times she had found Henry's pocket watch at a crime scene when she should have found a body instead; the times he had thrown himself in front of bullets or speeding cars with a devotion to the case that bordered on suicidal; the complete lack of real information he had shared about his past. What kind of detective was she? Why hadn't she suspected something?

A second voice rose to her defense. Suspected what, exactly? People didn't assume that their friends and colleagues were immortal. That wasn't a thing people were in the real world! Besides, as her partner and friend, Henry was supposed to trust her. He was more than a friend; he was her best friend—and he'd been lying to her and hiding his true self for as long as she'd known him. He should have told her.

Then a third voice spoke up. (A fourth voice pointed out that she had enough devil's advocates in her head to start her own law firm in hell, but she ignored that one.) Voice number three reminded her that Henry did try to tell her something on Saturday. Something big.

She needed more information. Plus, she needed to figure out who tried to kill them, and why. She needed to talk to Henry soon.

But she was still pissed.

* * *

Henry picked up the phone in his office and listened to the dial tone again. Lucas knocked and entered in one motion, and he quickly hung up.

"Here are the lab results from our latest John Doe. Meth overdose, as you predicted. Boring but easy."

Henry accepted the file with a distracted "hmm," but finally looked up when he realized Lucas was still standing there. "What is it, Lucas?"

"They're working fine, you know. The phones." Henry looked slightly embarrassed, but mostly irritated that Lucas had caught him checking. "Don't worry, Doc, she'll come around. It must have been a lot to take in."

Henry was momentarily alarmed by the comment until he traced back through what Lucas knew. Sean's autopsy—he thought Jo was upset about the autopsy. Henry did worry that was true, but it wasn't the whole story. Their attempted murder last night was also common knowledge around the precinct. Hanson had let him know that Jo arrived safely an hour ago, and yes, he had insisted on giving her a uniformed escort. After that, he had stopped answering Henry's calls.

"Thank you for your concern, Lucas, unsolicited though it was. Now don't you have something else you should be doing?"

"No, not really," he said, before he noticed Henry's expression. "...but I will go and find something right now."

"Good."

Henry waited for his assistant to close the door and move out of sight before he picked up the phone again. His findings on Sean's death had been released to the media this morning, and Palmer's lawyers were crowing on every news station. Surely she would want to discuss the case, if not anything personal. Maybe Hanson hadn't told her he was here yet. He called Abe.

Abe picked up in one ring. "Henry, enough already!"

Henry frowned into the receiver. "You answer your business phone like that? I could have been a customer!"

"No, you couldn't. No customers could possibly get through on this line, because some nut case has been calling every five minutes to see if he has any messages!"

"You exaggerate," Henry insisted.

"Not by much."

He couldn't stop himself from asking anyway. "Well...do I?"

"No!" Abe yelled. I'm hanging up now, Henry, and then I'm leaving the phone off the hook for your own good. Jo knows where to find you when she's ready." With a click, the line went dead.

He finally admitted to himself that it was true. She was upstairs right now, probably working on the Palmer case, or their shooting, or both, and she knew where to find him. She just didn't want to.

He was just hanging up the phone when she walked through his office door.

* * *

Jo had been upstairs working the shooting with Hanson for the last hour or more. She wasn't ready to see Lying Immortal Friend Henry yet, but she couldn't avoid Partner and Medical Examiner Dr. Morgan any longer, so here she was at his door.

Henry jumped to his feet when he saw her and started to say, "Jo! Thank God. We need to talk—" before he realized there was someone coming in behind her. He quickly schooled his face and added, "Detective Hanson, good afternoon."

She got right to business. "We caught a lucky break tracking our shooter."

Hanson elaborated. "One of the townhouses you pointed out had its lock picked. We didn't find any useful prints inside, but fortunately the owners are doting bird lovers who don't trust their pet sitter. There was a nanny cam recording, and our shooter walked right past it." He added dryly, "Thank you, Buddy the peach-faced love bird."

Jo said, "We ran facial recognition and got a hit in the system. Suspect's name is Greg Evans. Arrested twice for various weapons charges, never convicted. He's got a reputation as a sharp shooter for hire, and not a cheap one either. We've got an address and a warrant, and we're heading out now to pick him up."

"Shall I accompany you?"

"No!" she answered too quickly, then continued more evenly. "Badges and guns only. We just wanted to let you know."

"Yeah," said Hanson, "We tried calling, but you never picked up."

Henry grimaced. "I must have been on the other line."

"Ever hear of call waiting?" Hanson retorted, and turned to go.

Jo headed for the door as well, but Henry took a quick step towards her. "Detective Martinez!" She looked blankly at his outstretched hand, and he dropped it. "When you return, I have some…information for you that may be relevant to the shooting. Will you talk to me? About the case?"

"If we find him, we'll be busy with Evans for a while, but after that—sure. I'll come find you."

"Thank you." He searched her face for any sign of what she was thinking or feeling, but her mask was firmly in place. She barely met his eyes when she answered, and she turned away quickly to precede Hanson out of the office.

Hanson frowned at the strange interaction but didn't comment. "Later, Doc."

* * *

Henry kept himself busy and hoped Jo would return soon, but he hadn't expected her quite this soon, barely ninety minutes later. He also hadn't expected her to accompany a body bag.

"I thought you were going to collect Greg Evans," he queried as he unzipped the bag to begin his work.

"We did. You're looking at him."

Henry looked up in surprise, then back at the body. "This is the man who shot m— at us?" He amended mid-stream. "What happened?"

"You tell me. His apartment door was unlocked, and we found him laid out on the floor like this."

"You removed him from the scene without calling me?" He leaned towards her over Evans and spoke under his breath. "Are you that loathe to be in the same room with me?"

"No, Henry, I mean we found him just like this—he was already zipped into the body bag." She matched his intense whisper and leaned towards him as well. "And I am not loathe to be anywhere. Since he was all self-contained, I brought the crime scene to you. Anyway, are you sure you're not relieved?"

"Relieved that our best lead is dead?"

"And the only witness!" She retorted. "This is working out well for you!"

" _Well_? I'm the one who was shot!"

"That's my point!"

They were leaning over opposite sides of the body, heads within stage-whisper distance, postures rigid, when they both suddenly remembered where they were and glanced around. There was no one within earshot, although Lucas was unsuccessfully trying to hide his interest from across the room.

Henry straightened and returned his voice to a facsimile of normal. "Detective, may I have a word in my office?"

"By all means," she answered.

"Lucas!" he called curtly.

His assistant looked up from his clipboard innocently. "Yeah, boss?"

"Prepare for Mr. Evans's autopsy. Do not remove the body bag."

"No problem," he called towards their backs as they strode into Henry's office and shut the door.

"Take your time," he added, as they shut the blinds.

* * *

Henry locked the door just to be safe—Lucas really was nosy—and turned to face Jo. "You're obviously angry."

"Yes, Henry, very astute," she annunciated. "I _am_ angry."

"Will you please tell me why?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "Are you seriously asking me that?"

"I can guess the general reason," he said, and she huffed, "but not the specifics. Please, talk to me."

She crossed her arms. "You want to know why I'm mad? Because you and I work in dangerous professions—me because I'm a cop, you because...well, your job shouldn't be dangerous, but somehow you manage. My point is, you knew that dying in front of me was a possibility, but you still didn't tell me the truth. Not when it would have helped. I thought my partner had died in my arms—you let it come to that. How could you do that to me?"

Henry felt the sting of her words, the hurt and betrayal underpinning her anger, and the genuine caring underlying all of it. She was absolutely right; she had deserved better than that.

"I wish I could change what happened, or how it happened, but I can't." He hoped she could hear his regret and believe it. "What I can do now is help you figure out who tried to kill you."

He was steering the conversation into the case, and she decided to let him; it was safer there. "How do you know they weren't trying to kill you?"

He knit his brows. "It's possible, but not likely. Evans's location took careful planning, and he had no reason to assume I would be there last night. The curtains would only have revealed a silhouette, and we were…in close proximity at the time. I may have been collateral damage, or a bonus, but it's you he was hired to kill."

Jo looked away briefly at the memory of him tenderly comforting her grief, an image so out of place in the currently strained state of their friendship. "Okay, but why? If Palmer was behind it, why kill me last night, when the autopsy meant all eyes were on him?"

Henry's face lit up with sudden inspiration. "Because he was innocent."

"Excuse me?"

"Not of the shooting," he clarified. "I believe he is very guilty of your attempted murder. But—"

Jo picked up his train of thought. "—but he didn't kill Sean." Henry nodded, and she continued. "Palmer knew you wouldn't find anything in Sean's autopsy to accuse him, because he didn't do it. On the surface, he's got the best reason of anyone to want us alive until _after_ your results cleared him of suspicion."

"But Palmer doesn't operate on the surface," said Henry, "he thrives in the shadows. Perhaps there is something in those files that he fears you are uniquely qualified to notice. He knew my findings would be released today; tomorrow at the latest. He used this window of opportunity to try and kill you when he supposedly had reason to want you safe. It would make a compelling alibi."

She noticed that they had both started referring to her attempted murder without mentioning his. (Was it technically murder, or only attempted? She wasn't sure.) The shift in focus seemed to smooth the way for them to work the case together, and they both needed that.

"It was a bold move, in a twisted way," Henry observed. "If Sean had been murdered by someone else and I had discovered evidence of it, then we were both killed, Palmer would have looked guilty of three murders—theoretically," he added, "instead of just one."

Jo shook her head. "Men like him think they're untouchable."

"That hole in your wall proves that he's not. He considers you a threat. We just need to find out why."

Jo walked to the door and opened it. "I'll check the files; you check the body."

* * *

After he and Lucas completed their autopsy of Greg Evans, Henry considered going up to Homicide unannounced to share his findings; after all, that's what he would usually do. He was at the elevator doors when he thought again and decided it wasn't quite time yet and turned back to his office. He and Jo had come to a sort of truce for the sake of the case, but he wasn't foolish enough to think all was forgiven yet. Still, it gave him reason to hope.

Forgiven or not, he still needed to talk with his partner. He paced back to the elevator.

But what if he was pushing too hard for normal? He didn't want to overstep and damage their fragile peace. His hand was hovering indecisively over the button when the doors opened.

It was Jo, of course. "Henry, what are you doing? Show me what you found."

* * *

"I hope Evans's body told you something, because Hanson and I are getting nowhere with with connections between the Palmer files and Sean's." They were were back in Henry's office. They had left the blinds drawn, which reduced the modern effect of the glass walls and highlighted Henry's old-fashioned desk and bookshelves.

She had contacted the DA and shared her suspicions about the shooting, and Dunning had gladly given her access to any of Sean's old files not protected by attorney/client privilege. For those that were, her team was redoubling their efforts to scour them for a connection. Unfortunately, neither Jo and Hanson or the DA's office was having any luck.

"Nothing conclusive on the body either, I'm afraid," Henry answered. "Evans was killed by a single execution-style gunshot to the back of the head. Judging by the amount of blood pooled in the bottom of the bag, he was placed inside immediately after he was shot. He may have even been forced to get into the bag while he was still alive."

Jo shuddered. "Okay, that's…awful. Even for the guy who tried to kill us."

"To exert that level of control over an experienced killer, even through an intermediary killer, then to place his body where the police would find it, literally wrapped up like a gift, demonstrates an almost pathological level of confidence. Our mastermind thinks he is invulnerable, or nearly so. He may become reckless if that belief is threatened. This could be especially dangerous for you as the perceived source of the threat."

He was talking about her safety, but she was still caught on his earlier word. "Invulnerable, huh? Kind of like you?"

He smiled ruefully. "I'm not invulnerable; I'm immortal. The former cannot be hurt. The latter cannot die."

"Good to know," she said with irony. "Thanks for telling me."

He sank onto the corner of his desk and sighed. "I had a plan, you know. I was going to tell you on Saturday. Dinner, _vino_ , and then _veritas_. I even arranged to reawaken the Thursday before so I could show you that my bullet wound from the incident on the yacht was gone."

She frowned. "Hold on—that's why you couldn't join us for drinks after the last case? Your "errand" was that you had to go kill yourself?"

"Well, yes. When you put it that way it sounds slightly less considerate—but I assure you, I was about to tell you the whole truth on Saturday night."

_Saturday night…_ She put the pieces together. "And then my phone rang."

He nodded. "After the news you received, I think you'll agree that the moment wasn't right."

Parts of their odd, interrupted conversation sprang to mind like they'd been waiting their turn. "So when you told me you were exactly the same as when you got your scar—"

"—I meant _exactly_. That's the moment I stopped aging."

"You called it a long time ago," she pressed on. "How long?"

"I died for the first time on April 7, 1814."

"Holy—!" She did the math. "So you're over 200 years old?"

"Two hundred thirty-five in September."

"Could've fooled me. Oh wait! You did." Her tone could have cut glass.

Henry stood up; he was starting to feel angry as well. "I know I've concealed things from you, and for that I am truly sorry. But you have no idea what my life has been like—how completely I have been betrayed by people I trusted! Can you stand there and honestly say you would have done things differently?"

"I don't know, Henry!" Her voice rose with frustration. "This is completely beyond anything I—" words escaped her. "It's completely beyond anything, period."

"I did try to tell you," he repeated. "I had an excellent plan."

"Well, life doesn't always go as planned."

To Henry, the unspoken facts behind her statement seemed to confirm all his fears. He answered in a resigned tone. "I'm sorry, Jo. I know it's not fair that I've lived so many lives when Sean's was cut so short. You must find it repulsive to be around me now, especially in this place where I…" He gestured towards the exam table beyond the shuttered windows. "Perhaps you find my condition repulsive as well; you wouldn't be the first. I only hope that we can still work together as colleagues."

She blinked, trying to catch up with what felt like a sudden change in topic. "Wait. You think this is about Sean? For a smart guy you can be such an idiot! This was never about Sean!"

She may have been talking about the state of her relationship with Henry, but as soon as she heard herself say those words, the case suddenly snapped into focus. "Henry, that's it! This isn't about Sean; it never was. I've been looking through his old cases for a connection to Palmer when I should have been looking through mine."

* * *

When he wasn't sure where Jo was, Hanson had come to assume she was in the morgue with Henry, so that's where he was headed now. As he crossed the lab towards the M.E.'s office, he heard the unexpected sounds of a muffled argument. He stopped several feet short of the door and listened. He couldn't make out the entire conversation, only snippets: _"…you have no idea…this is completely beyond anything…such an idiot! This was never about Sean!"_ Then everything went quiet.

Lucas paused on his way past to stand next to the detective. "They never used to do that," he commented.

"What, fight?" asked Hanson.

Lucas shook his head. "Close the blinds. They lock the door now, too. Not that I checked," he added quickly, and then walked on.

Hanson turned again to the shuttered windows. He could no longer hear their voices, but the door remained closed, and after several seconds he turned and walked back to the elevator. The pieces were starting to fall into place.


	8. TRUTH, AFTER-HOURS

_I have a theory that the truth is never told during the nine-to-five hours._

_~Hunter S. Thompson_

* * *

When Jo returned from the morgue, she was buzzing with renewed energy. Whatever had happened in Henry's locked office had ended well for her, Hanson thought dryly.

"Did Henry have some good news for us?" he asked.

"What?" Jo said in confusion. "Oh, the autopsy. No, nothing we can act on."

"You're in a good mood for a woman with no leads."

"Maybe not a lead, but let's call it a new angle," she said. "Henry inspired it with something he—."

Hanson interrupted before she could finish. "Yeah, I can see that you're feeling 'inspired'." He decided it was time for a little man-to-woman talk. "Before you tell me about it—let's walk. I could use some air."

Jo gave him a puzzled look but followed him to the elevator. He hit the button for the roof.

They didn't talk much on the way up. When they got to the top, they stepped out into the lengthening shadows of the early evening sun. They were alone.

Jo finally turned to him. "What's this about, Mike?"

He looked at her and said matter-of-factly, "I know what's going on between you and Henry."

She frowned, somewhere between confused and cautious. "What are you talking about?"

"The night Evans took a shot at you," he said. "You said you two were just reading files, but there was a definite vibe, like there was something you weren't saying. You both kept glancing at each other when you thought no one was looking. You also kept staring at that same spot on the floor where I found his scarf all balled up. I have never seen that man wrinkle for anyone but you."

Next came the clincher. "When I got close to him—Jo, he smelled like you. I don't have the Doc's delicate nose, but it was more than just a passing hint. It was pretty obvious you'd been "rubbing off" on him. Factor in the closed blinds, the locked office; it all adds up."

Jo grimaced.  _Damn!_ Henry probably wasn't able to wash off the river smell without shampoo and soap. Her soap. She kicked herself for not noticing, but hey—it had been a stressful night.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm not judging!" Hanson continued. "I can tell you two have gotten close lately, and I think he's a good guy. Weird as hell, but a gentleman. I just need to know you're being straight with me about the facts here."

Jo didn't answer right away. Instead, she walked to a spot on the railing and leaned her elbows on it, her eyes gazing out across Manhattan. Hanson followed her lead.

She hated lying to him, so she chose the closest thing to the truth that she could.

"Last night," she began, "when Henry told me that Sean hadn't been murdered…I didn't take it well. After reading all those files, realizing how dirty Palmer must be, I think part of me started  _hoping_  Sean was murdered so I would have someone to blame.

"Then Henry showed up and told me it was his heart after all, and I sort of fell apart. I was a complete mess, actually—and Henry held me. When I couldn't stand up, we sat on the floor, in that spot near the window. His scarf was where my face was buried for the worst of it. It didn't stand a chance.

"Once I got it together and he picked me up off the floor, he asked what I found in the files, probably to distract me, and we looked at them together until the shot."

Jo finally looked at Hanson. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Mike. I was embarrassed. I thought I was past the messy grief stage, but this case sort of reopened old wounds, you know? And you're right; Henry and I have gotten closer lately. But we're not together."

Hanson considered for a moment and then nodded, accepting her explanation. They both turned back to look at the city. Jo tried not to feel too guilty about the lies and omissions scattered throughout her story.

Finally he asked, "So what was this inspiration you found while you were locked up with Henry in his office?"

Part of her felt a twinge of embarrassment when she realized how he had interpreted the scene. If she was honest, a tiny part of her felt a different kind of twinge.

"We've been looking in the wrong place," she said. "I think the evidence Palmer is afraid of is in one of my cases, not Sean's."

They stayed there for a moment longer, enjoying the mild May evening, until Hanson straightened and said, "I'm hungry. Are you hungry? How about we order some Chinese and dust off your old files?"

She smiled and nodded. "I could go for Chinese."

* * *

Somewhere between the moo shu pork and the second order of egg rolls, they found it.

Jo, Hanson, and Henry were sitting in a conference room surrounded by Jo's case files and white take-out cartons. Henry had gratefully accepted the olive branch when Jo invited him to help with the files; there was no physical evidence from the old cases for him to examine, and he needed to be of use.

After two hours and no promising discoveries, Hanson leaned back and said, "Maybe we're overshooting the mark here."

Jo looked up from her past notes. "How do you mean?"

"We've been looking for evidence that Palmer was somehow connected to one of your old murder cases, but that's not the charge the DA thinks she can nail him for. She's pushing for—"

"Election fraud," Jo and Henry finished in unison.

Jo rolled the idea around in her mind. "So instead of a smoking gun, we should be looking for a smoking ballot box?"

"Smoking…" Henry muttered, and shuffled through a stack until he found the file he was looking for. "Do you recall a man by the name of Joey Hilll?"

"Sure," said Jo. "Local mob gopher. He was my lead suspect in the death of an informant a few years back, before it was ruled natural causes. Why do you ask?"

Henry answered with another question. "Is there anything unusual you remember about the case? Anything not on record?" He passed the file to her, and she skimmed through it to jog her memory.

She frowned, thinking back. "Joey was a weird guy. I remember going down to holding to tell him he was being released, and he said it was about time, because it was his civic duty as a smoker to fight the powers of Big Lung. Then he said, 'We're gonna put the 'P' back in Parliament!' I assumed he meant Congress, but who knows."

"I know that guy—he's a nut ball," Hanson agreed. "But he's Jimmy the Fish's cousin. The family gives him little jobs to keep him busy, but nothing too important, since he can't keep his mouth shut. Also, he's nuts," he reiterated.

"What do you see, Henry?" Jo prodded again.

He pointed towards the file Jo now held. "One preliminary piece of evidence against Mr. Hill was the tobacco found on the bottoms of his shoes."

"Yeah, I remember that," Jo said. "Later they determined it was a different brand than we found on the vic."

"Not a different brand—a different stage," Henry corrected. "The tobacco collected from Mr. Hill's shoes had not yet been aged or shredded; no commercial product would contain tobacco in that unfinished state. He must have been in a facility that processed tobacco shortly before he was arrested."

"A cigarette factory?" Jo translated, and Henry nodded. "What reason would he have to be there?"

"No legitimate reason," said Hanson, "but Palmer's biggest campaign contributor was big tobacco."

Jo added, "There have been some major cigarette tax and product labeling votes in Congress since the last election—all sorts of reasons for a big tobacco company to rig an election and put a ringer on Capitol Hill."

Henry nodded. "Joey's ''P' in Parliament' may have been Palmer."

"He might be the missing link the DA's been looking for," Jo said, standing up, "in more ways than one. We need to find Joey Hill."

* * *

As it turned out, Joey Hill was not hard to find. He was well-known for losing big at trivia every Tuesday night at the same bar.

He was equally skilled at upholding his right to remain silent; in other words, he quickly spilled everything he knew about his family's connection to Palmer, the tobacco company, and the senator's latest victory. He didn't know a lot—like Hanson had said, the family knew better than to tell him much—but it was enough to start looking in the right places. He even knew a little something about the recent activities of a sniper-for-hire, and where to look for the killer's killer.

When Jo informed the DA, she was ecstatic. Henry was relieved. Not only was this a promising step towards bringing Palmer to justice, it also signaled the end of the current threat against Jo's life. Nevertheless, wrapping up the case was bittersweet; Jo would have the mental space now to process the reality of his secret and learn more, but he feared she may not want to.

He used a moment when Jo was occupied to slip back down to his office and retrieve something. He left it on Jo's desk and quietly went home alone.

* * *

Jo knew the envelope addressed to " _Detective Martinez_ " in flowing script could only have come from Henry.

He must have left it there while she, Hanson and Lt. Reece were on a conference call with Dunning. She looked around, but he was nowhere to be seen. The stationery was a creamy, high-quality paper, well beyond the usual supply items of the NYPD. When she opened it, she found a single folded sheet addressed to her.

She had never seen his handwriting before, not beyond jotted notes in files. It was even and elegant, the product of a different age.

_Dear Jo,_

_Congratulations on a successful resolution to our case, and for striking a blow against Senator Palmer; I doubt his lawyers will be quite so smug tomorrow. For reasons you can likely imagine, I have rarely seen my own "wrongdoers" brought to justice, and I thank you for the part you played in changing the story this time._

_As to the private matter that came to light on Monday, I am happy to tell you whatever you wish to know, and I know that you will not betray my confidence. If however, all things considered, you wish to maintain our professional relationship and not pursue a closer personal acquaintance, I will understand. Further knowledge of this matter has often proven to be more burden than blessing to the people around me, and I would not wish to force it on you any more than I already have._

_For as much as you wish it, I remain your friend,_

_Henry Morgan_

It was carefully worded to avoid specifics in case it fell into hands other than hers, but his meaning was obvious to Jo. Henry was giving her a "get out of friendship free" card. She didn't know if this was still about Sean, or her first reaction to his "condition" and his secrecy about it, or if he truly thought that being his friend was a burden, but she had no intention of accepting his offer. He wasn't getting away from her that easily.

Hanson was putting on his jacket and preparing to go home when he noticed what she was holding. "What's that?"

"A letter from Henry, congratulating me on the case."

Hanson snorted. "He would write a letter. That guy was born in the wrong century."

Jo smiled a little. "He really was."

Hanson cocked an eyebrow. "You sure he's not sweet on you? I still think there's a vibe, but it's hard to tell with guys like that."

"Guys like what?" she asked, to herself adding,  _Immortal and dragging around 200 years of emotional baggage?_

He shrugged. "British."

She laughed. "If there's ever something to see, you'll probably see it long before I do. Good night, Mike."

He chuckled and walked out the door, and she got ready to leave as well. Jo wondered if it would have been easier to claim that yes, in the midst of that emotional night she and Henry had shared a moment of passion, and that's why things had been strained between them lately, but she dismissed the idea. After all, the best lies were closest to the truth, and the truth was that she and Henry were not together.

Which made what she was about to do even stranger.


	9. TRUTH, LAID BARE

_The naked truth is always better than the best-dressed lie. ~Ann Landers_

* * *

Henry sat at the desk in his basement laboratory. His current "death diary," as Abe called them, was open in front of him. He was midway through the entry for his recent shooting, but he wasn't making very quick progress. Every few minutes he found himself lost in thought. Sometimes he was reliving times when people he trusted had reacted badly to learning his secret; sometimes he was reliving good reactions. Mostly he was thinking about his partner, or maybe his former partner; he wasn't certain what she was now. She hadn't told him one way or the other what they would be to each other moving forward, but his personal history had taught him that getting his hopes up would only make the disappointment more painful later on.  _At least this time I don't need to flee,_  he told himself.  _Even if she keeps her distance, Jo will honor my secret._ The thought should have been a comfort, but it wasn't.

He was lost in those thoughts when he heard clipped footsteps descending the stairs, and he looked up.

"Detective," he said in surprise, and rose quickly to his feet. "How did you—"

"Abe let me in," she answered shortly. She came to stand a few feet in front of him, folded her arms across her chest, and looked at him.

"I…wasn't expecting you," he offered.

"No, I bet you weren't," she answered, then waited a beat before continuing. "Take off your shirt."

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me, take off your shirt."

After a pause, he replied, "All right…" He began to unbutton his waistcoat—vest, as Americans insisted on calling them. After a few buttons he asked, "Did you read my letter?" She was pinning him with a very pointed look and he wasn't sure what the protocol was for small talk in this situation. He wasn't even sure what this situation  _was,_ to be honest. Meanwhile, his fingers continued to work.

"Yeah, I got it," she said, but did not elaborate.

He slid off his vest and folded it deliberately over the back of the chair he had vacated. When he looked back at Jo, she hadn't stirred from her slightly impatient pose, so he unbuttoned his cuffs, then started working his way down the central row of buttons on his shirt.

Jo was struggling a little to stay focused. She had seen Henry shirtless before, but it had been a life-threatening situation, or so she had thought at the time. However, watching his actual act of undressing in front of her, his eyes never leaving hers, was unexpectedly intimate. She refocused on why she had come.

"The answer is no."

"No?" He creased his brows, trying to remember the question.

"In your letter, you offered to 'maintain our professional relationship without getting personal,'" she air quoted. "Remember that?"

"Those weren't my exact words," he protested, and she glared. "…but that was the general sentiment."

"Well, the answer is no. I do not accept your offer," she repeated. "Henry, you're my best friend. Have I mentioned that yet?" For such a meaningful statement, she laid it out very factually.

He was surprised and honored, and unsure how to respond. "Jo, I—"

"—because it's true; you are," she plowed on. "Was I surprised by what happened to you? Yes. Was I upset? Hell, yes. But you are still my partner, and still my friend. And now I have questions."

The resignation and loss that had been seeping through him all evening like spilled ink suddenly halted, and for the first time since dinner on Saturday, he started to hope for better. "I'll answer as best I can."

His shirt lay open now, and she let her gaze drop to the strip of exposed skin. "Show me your scar."

He drew the left panel over to reveal the puckered circle on the surface of his chest. Jo took a step forward, then two. She brought her hand up to trace the ragged edge.

"What happened?" Her voice was the mix of gentle and firm that she might use with a witness, questioning but not accusing.

At last, he told her the truth. "I was traveling to the New World as the doctor on a slave ship—my father's slave ship," he added, and the hint of bitterness in his voice told her that was a long story for another time. "The captain wanted to dispose of one of his 'cargo,' and I protested. When I stepped in front of my patient, the captain shot me instead, and his men threw me overboard. I thought I was dead, but the next thing I knew I was breaking the surface of the ocean, naked and gasping for breath. A passing ship spotted and rescued me." He paused. "Now you know as much about the "why" of my condition as I do."

She caught the undertone of old frustration in his final statement. For a man like Henry who thrived on knowing and finding the truth, the mystery of his own existence must have been a constant trial.

Her hand travelled to the other side of his chest and his right shoulder, still half-hidden by his shirt, to the unmarked flesh where there ought to have been a bullet wound. A sudden revelation made her gasp a little. "Last month—you died on that yacht, didn't you?"

He nodded reluctantly. "After I reawakened, I shot myself in a less fatal place to mask my recovery."

"You chose to shoot yourself rather than tell me the truth?" The question still held a dose of accusation, but Henry heard the genuine curiosity mixed in as well. Her fingers unconsciously continued to probe his shoulder, gently testing his wholeness.

He shrugged his other shoulder slightly. "I wasn't ready. The moment came so suddenly, and I didn't want you to find out that way, without a word of warning. I'm sorry that you did anyway, in the end."

Another question occurred to her. "Henry, how many times have you died since I've known you?"

He thought back. "Well, there was the day we first met; I was on the subway car, as you know…"

One by one, he listed his deaths since September. For each one, she placed her hand on the site of the wound if she could; when he admitted to being hit by a truck on the bridge, she just shook her head at the stupidity.

When he told her that the Soul Slasher copycat had stabbed him in the back outside the Frenchman's shop, Jo gave an indignant "What?!" and pulled his shirt down by the collar to see his back, tossing it dismissively over the chair alongside the vest. "I told you not to go after him by yourself!" Her touch to that not-wound was closer to an irritated whack.

He told her about drowning in the taxi, and she rested her hand in the center of his chest, over his heart and lungs. Whenever a death involved Adam, Henry glossed over that element. Jo saw clearly that there was a missing piece, but she let it go for now; there was obviously a separate story there as well, and a big one.

They were almost caught up to the present when Henry ventured, "May I ask you a question?"

"Shoot."

He gave her a pained look at her choice of words but continued. "Are  _you_  being completely honest with  _me_?"

"About what?"

He searched for the right words. "About your level of comfort with our friendship. About what…and who…you see when you look at me now."

She dropped her hand from him, exasperated. "Henry, I told you: the issues between us this week have nothing to do with Sean. I asked for your help as a friend, and you gave it—how can you think I would resent you for that?"

He wasn't convinced. "You asked for my help because I was the best man for the job. That doesn't mean it didn't affect your view of me."

Her hands went to her hips. "Want to know what affected my view of you? Seeing you die, disappear, and then reappear on my doorstep!" She held up a finger. "And don't you dare ask again if I find your condition 'repulsive'. My reaction was never about who or what you are. It was about not  _knowing_ who you are; about you not telling me."

She gave him a long look, then circled around behind him. He tried to turn, but she stopped him with a firm hand on his back. He felt her hand move to rest between his shoulder blades. She pressed her fingers between two vertebrae.

"Was it here?"

He knew what she meant. "A little lower." Her fingers felt their way down a notch at a time until he said, "right there," and she stopped.

"Did it hurt?" she asked simply.

"Yes." He could see out of the corner of his eye that she was waiting for him to continue, so he did. "I was bleeding heavily, both externally and internally; that's what killed me. The bullet also severed my spinal cord, so I couldn't move my legs. Thankfully it was quick, but it was...unpleasant. I was glad to not be alone," he added.

She continued to work her fingers along that small spot on his spine, pressing lightly on the phantom wound she had been unable to staunch the night before. "So the next time a body comes into your morgue with this type of injury, you will know exactly how the victim felt when he died."

"Every death is different, but to some degree, yes."

She circled back around to face him. "And you've died, what? Hundreds of times? Thousands?"

He shrugged. He knew the number, of course, but didn't care to say it. "Enough to fill those shelves." He nodded to his notebooks.

She followed his gaze, then looked back at him. "And each time, you understand one more type of pain, one more human experience, in a way that no one else can." Although he remained silent, she saw confirmation in that familiar faraway look of his that she finally understood. "I don't think it's repulsive." She picked up his shirt off the chair and handed it to him, then placed a hand over his scar. "I think it's remarkable."

She held her hand there, warm and sure, for one, two, three beats of his heart. Then she turned and walked up the stairs without another word.


	10. TRUTH, IMPROBABLE

_Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth._

_~Arthur Conan Doyle_

* * *

"The case is far from won, but thanks to your exceptional work, we have the upper hand at last. Well done, all of you." District Attorney Barbara Dunning wrapped up her comments to the officers of the 11th Precinct to a smattering of applause.

Once the rest of the staff began dispersing back to business as usual, Dunning approached Jo. "Detective Martinez, I especially wanted to thank you for everything you've done this week. I know my decision wasn't easy for you."

Jo smiled tightly.  _The decision to dig up my husband's body, which led to an attempt on my life that got my partner killed, which revealed that my partner can't actually die? That decision, you mean?_  Out loud she simply said, "You had a tough call to make, and you made it. I respect that."

The DA nodded in acknowledgement. "I had hoped to meet Dr. Morgan and thank him as well," she added.

Jo glanced over Dunning's shoulder at the man exiting the elevator. "You're in luck, then."

As usual, Henry gravitated to his partner. The woman standing next to Jo turned to him and smiled, hand extended.

"Doctor Morgan, I'm Barbara Dunning. I wanted to thank you for your fine work on this case."

"That's very kind of you," he said politely, shaking her hand. "Especially considering that I didn't find the answer you wanted."

"I only wanted the truth, Doctor," she replied with a mild smile and the carefully-chosen words of an elected official and a lawyer.

Henry smiled back. "Of course."

After Dunning moved on to speak with Lt. Reece, he turned to Jo. "Good afternoon, Detective."

"Hi." She smiled a little quizzically at his typically polite greeting. After all, this was the first time they had met since last night, when she'd invaded his space, stripped him half-naked, and finally convinced him she wasn't going to push him away. A little morning-after awkwardness would be natural—their encounter had been more personal, more intimate, than any of her one-night stands. Instead, she was relieved to discover there was no awkwardness. The worry and resignation that had haunted his eyes for the past few days was gone, replaced by his usual blend of manners and enthusiasm, plus something more. He looked happy.

He  _was_  happy today, Henry realized, but that word seemed inadequate. What was it you felt when your friends exceeded expectations? When life gave you a win when you expected a draw at best? Gratitude—that was it. He felt grateful.

"Abe tells me you're joining us for dinner," he said.

"Yeah, he called at lunchtime to invite me. I hope that's all right."

"Of course! You are always welcome." He leaned in slightly to add, "Even when you drop by uninvited."

She rose to the challenge and gave him a quick down-and-up glance. "Just be glad you don't have a scar anywhere more private."

He raised his eyebrows. "Who says I don't? You were very lax in your investigation, Detective."

Jo was momentarily speechless at his tease when Hanson joined them. "What investigation?"

She narrowed her eyes at her partner's suddenly innocent expression and replied, "You don't want to know." With that, she picked up her jacket and draped it over one arm. "Well, I'm heading out—see you guys later." She turned and headed for the elevator.

Henry turned to Hanson. "I'm off as well—paperwork awaits me in the morgue. Good afternoon, Detective."

"Later, you two." Hanson watched the M.E. catch up to Jo and walk beside her, and saw her give him a back-handed smack to the shoulder; he responded with a sly, lop-sided grin. As they entered the elevator together and turned, Hanson saw that her irritated look hid a thinly veiled smile of her own.

He shook his head. Together or not, there was a definite vibe.

* * *

A few hours later, Jo was walking up the stairs in the back of Abe's Antiques, accompanied by the man himself.

"Glad you could make it on such short notice," Abe said, and accepted the brown paper bag she offered.

"I brought appetizers from the new place down the street," she explained. "I would have brought wine, but…"

"…but you know Henry has very particular tastes," Abe finished. "Good call."

They went into the kitchen, and Abe put the food in the oven to keep warm. Jo glanced around. "Where is Henry?"

"Out buying his very particular wine," Abe said. "May I offer you a bit of what's left while we wait?"

She smiled and accepted a glass, and he poured one for himself before saying, "Come sit with me. There's something I'd like to show you."

He gestured towards the couch, and they both sat down. The coffee table held a pile of what looked like old photo albums. Before opening them, Abe turned to her. "Helluva week you've had."

She made a sound of agreement. "Yeah, you could say that."

"How are you doing with everything?"

A lot of people had asked her that question since Sunday, and she had given them all the standard answer of "fine, thanks." Abe was the only person who really knew what he was asking, and she honored that with a real answer.

"Everything has been…a lot to process." She gazed into her wine glass. "Having someone you care about taken away is bad enough. But then having them come back, then taken away again… between Sean and Henry, it's been a yo-yo week. I mean, I know Sean isn't actually coming back," she clarified. "It's more about…"

"His presence?" Abe finished. She nodded.

"If it makes you feel any better, you're not the only one with ghosts," he said. "Henry drags so many around he barely has room for the living anymore." Abe paused to regard her. "He made room for you, though."

"Did he? He tried to push me out again once already," she commented, thinking of his letter.

"You pushed right back, from what I hear—and good for you! That's exactly what he needs: someone with a little fight in them to remind him that he's still alive." She raised an eyebrow and Abe answered, "I know, he's immortal— the irony is not lost on me."

Jo ventured, "Is this about Abigail?"

Abe took a moment to choose his words. "Everybody has times in life when the people they love let them down. Because of the way he is, when that happens to Henry the results are much more…dramatic. He's also had time to build up quite a list of examples.

"Abigail is part of why he shuts himself away," Abe acknowledged, "but Henry has 200 years' worth of other reasons, too." He leaned forward. "I'm not gonna lie: his baggage is a special kind of crazy. But he's also the best man I know. He's worth the effort."

Jo looked at the older man thoughtfully. "Who are you, Abe? To Henry, I mean?"

Abe smiled, pleased that she was ready to know. He chose one of the albums in front of them and flipped through until he came to the page he was looking for and handed it to the detective. In the photo, a pretty blonde in a Word War II nurse's uniform was holding a round-faced baby and standing next to a familiar man. Both of them were smiling. "I'm the baby he and Abigail rescued and adopted after the war. I'm his son."

Jo had seen and heard some unbelievable things in the last few days, but this one made perfect sense. The misaligned pieces she knew of Henry and Abe's relationship snapped into place with a satisfying click, and she smiled. "Abraham Morgan." He nodded. "It's nice to meet you."

"Thank you." He reached out to squeeze her hand. "It's nice to hear that name once in a while. Legally, I dropped 'Morgan' a few decades ago. Once I started looking as old as my father, and then older, it got too hard to keep changing the story."

Jo looked back at the photo. Henry's clothes and hair style may have been different, and he was shaven to a military standard she never saw on his face now, but otherwise he looked exactly the same. He truly had not aged a day since 1945, and apparently since far earlier than that. How strange it must be, she thought, to watch everyone around him grow old, even his own son, while he was left behind. Her eyes travelled to the other person in the photo. It was the first time she had seen Abigail's image, and her curiosity about what had happened between them was piqued.

Abe read the direction of her thoughts and said, "The rest of that story is Henry's to tell, when he's ready. Now, before he gets back and stops me, I'll show you the really juicy ones." He flipped through another book until he pointed and said, "There! Take a look at that!"

Jo squinted at the fading color photo and grinned. "Wow, those are some serious bell bottoms."

* * *

Henry walked in to the sound of laughter. He could see Jo and Abe sitting on the couch. The photo albums were open on the table in front of them, but Jo's attention was on the embarrassing story—embarrassing to Henry, of course— that Abe was currently embellishing.

"He did not say that!" Jo protested.

"He did!" said Abe. "To which the nice officer replied, 'That may be what it's called in Latin, sir, but you still can't do it in public.'" She burst out laughing, and Henry felt sympathetic vibrations in his own heart at the sound.

He crossed the apartment and set two bottles on the table.

"Henry, finally!" said Abe, as he and Jo stood up. "Did you harvest the grapes yourself?"

"George was out of the '94 and I had to try another shop," he explained. "Besides, it sounds like you kept Jo well-entertained in my absence, and at my expense."

"Yes, and I'm glad he did," Jo said. "Kids' stories about their parents always make the best blackmail material. Great for getting favors later."

Henry smiled at her way of acknowledging who Abe was and replied, "I think he was less trouble as a toddler."

"That may be," said Abe as he pulled a dish out of the warm oven and moved it to the table, "but I'm much cuter now. Also, I didn't cook as well back then. Have a seat, you two; dinner is served."

* * *

Dinner was a lively and light-hearted affair. Without the restraints of their vague cover story, Abe had a great many stories to tell, and Henry jumped in frequently to correct a detail or defend himself. Jo even offered a few of her own colorful family moments, growing up with two brothers and a father who was sometimes less than law-abiding. Even if they didn't dig deep, there was a new openness at the table that all three of them enjoyed.

After dinner and the dishes were done, Abe suggested, "It's a beautiful night—why don't you two take a walk?" They both looked ready to protest, but he pointed to each in turn. "You're armed, and you're immortal; what are you afraid of? Go, talk; maybe find some trouble to get into." He shooed them down the stairs and out the front entrance.

They looked back at the abruptly closed door, then at each other, and laughed.

"Shall we?" Henry asked. "It is a lovely night."

"Sure."

He gestured down the sidewalk, and they fell into step together, sharing a companionable silence.

After a block or two, Jo ventured, "So. Here we are."

"Yes, here we are."

She hesitated a moment, then said, "This may sound kind of weird, but you should be proud of Abe. He's a great guy."

Henry's smile was deep and genuine. "Thank you, I am proud. He's been the best part of my life."

"And that covers a lot of ground, old man," she teased, then went quiet. They waited at a crosswalk; the signal turned white, and they continued on.

"Penny for your thoughts," he offered.

"You were right the other day," she began, "when you told me not to let Sean's death steal my joy in how he lived."

"That does sound rather profound," he said, and she rolled her eyes. "Are you starting to find those moments of joy?"

"Here and there," she said. "At least I can see how it might be possible someday—moving on." She looked over at him. "What about you? Can you see past what you've lost to what you have? "

He nodded a little. "I try to. On good days I do. Having someone I can trust goes a long way in reminding me." He looked at her. "Thank you for that."

He felt it again, washing over him in a wave: gratitude. Gratitude to whatever force governed the universe, but especially to the woman walking beside him, for invading his space and stripping away the layer he had begun forming yet again to seal up every entrance to his heart.

Her answer was far more practical. "Hey, what are partners for?"

"I'm fairly certain this goes above and beyond the NYPD guidelines."

She shrugged. "Well, we're not officially partners anyway. And unofficially, you still haven't told me much about yourself—besides the 'immortality' thing." She turned her head as they walked to examine his profile. "So, Henry Morgan: what's your story?"

He smiled at the call-back to their first drink together. Back then he told her he wouldn't bore her with the details. He still hoped not to bore her, but a few details seemed in order. "Well, I was born in 1779 in Surrey, south of London. My father owned a shipping company…"

* * *

They continued to walk together, down city blocks flowing with light traffic, and sometimes up quieter side streets. She asked questions, he answered, and she began to piece together the skeleton of his life. His father; his first wife, Nora, and what she did; his new life in New York; Abigail and Abe and their time as a family. He wasn't ready yet to talk about how she left, and Jo didn't push.

He asked questions too: her family; how she became a cop; how she and Sean met. She wasn't ready yet to talk about finding someone new, and he didn't push.

When they had both said enough for the evening, she asked, "So where does all of this leave us?"

He thought for a moment, then replied, "Einstein once said, 'Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.'"

"He was a smart guy, he ought to know," Jo said.

"He was brilliant. He also never wore socks, which I found a bit distracting, especially in the summer."

"You knew Albert Einstein." It was a question, a statement, and a challenge all rolled into one.

"Who can really 'know' a man like that?" he answered philosophically. "But I did meet him once. His feet were quite fragrant."

She was about to demand details when they came to a slightly shabby marquee and a chalkboard sign on the sidewalk advertising the evening's entertainment, and she stopped.

"Starlite bowling!" Jo exclaimed. "I used to do this all the time when I was a kid. They turn off the lights and turn on the disco ball."

"I never understood the appeal," Henry said.

"Well, it's more fun when you can't—wait a minute." She turned to face him fully. "You've never been bowling at all, have you?"

"Why would I pay money to wear someone else's shoes, sit in plastic chairs, stick my fingers inside a germ-ridden ball and fling it across the floor?" He practically shuddered at the thought.

"You're 235 years old and you've never been bowling? This I've got to see."

He was starting to sense danger. "No, thank you—Jo, let's just walk back to the shop and finish the evening with a nice glass of wine."

His partner ignored his protests. She pulled open the door to Memory Lanes with one hand. Strains of an 80's rock ballad and the smell of cheap nachos drifted out. "Come on, Henry," she said, and held out her other hand towards him. "Live a little."

He took in the challenge written lightly on her face, took one final breath of fresh air, and took hold of her hand.

 


End file.
